


Obituary

by headlessjess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, Gay Male Character, Gay Parents, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pain, Parenthood, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headlessjess/pseuds/headlessjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead, and it has devastated John - who hasn't told Hamish yet.<br/>When Hamish finds out, the family is hurt as if beyond repair. Can it be healed by time? Or are the wounds unable to close?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obituary

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fanfiction! My tumblr is at www.magnussvn.tumblr.com. I do take requests!

_There was a loud crash within the warehouse and Sherlock knew they'd been found. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe he was wrong - and not the wrong that didn't matter... it was the type of wrong that brought about the death of fifteen people._

_'Detective! Undercover!'_

_But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He knew where they'd be now, the terrorists, running through the corridor, only a few hundred feet away, guns in hand._

_Sherlock looked around. They didn't have guns. They didn't have anything._

_Clarke was crouched on the floor, behind a crate, and looked up to Sherlock._

_'Detective, I suggest you get down immediately.'_

_'It's over, Clarke. I'm sorry.' Sherlock called back._

_There was a pause. He knew that Clarke wouldn't be angry that he got it wrong. He knew that and he hated it._

_'You did your best, Sherlock Holmes.'_

_But I could have done better, he thought to himself. I could have done better._

_Sherlock glanced down at the officer. He wasn't focused on Sherlock anymore. His lips were moving, perhaps in a prayer._

_Perhaps in a goodbye._

_Sherlock didn't have anyone to say goodbye to._

_His heart fluttered for a moment. That wasn't true, not anymore. He had John. He had Hamish. He had a family._

_Could he say it? Say it like he said it that time, years and years ago. Say it this time but_ mean  _it?_

_'Goodbye Hamish.' He whispered, agonized at the words he was saying. 'Be a good boy.'_

_There was a pause. He could hear them, just about to break down the second door._

_It all happened in a split second - the crash, the shouts, the gunshots, the blood, the screams, the pain..._

_'Goodbye John.'_

_It all went black._

 

***

 

'Hamish!' John called from the sitting room.

Twelve year old Hamish groaned. He was building a model airplane at the time, a spitfire, his hands spattered with khaki green paint. He hastily wiped them on his trousers to no avail, sighed, and trotted downstairs to see John at the sofa. His feet were resting on the coffee table, and he was immersed in a newspaper.

As Hamish walked in, John didn't look up.

'Hamish, could you do me a favour and go and get some milk from the shop down the road?' he asked distractedly.

Hamish groaned. He hated leaving in the middle of a project.

'You're not doing anything, Dad! Can't you go?'

'I'm busy.'

'Doing what?'

'Doing... doing things. Come on, Hamish.'

'Can't Father go?'

There was a slight pause and John's eyes flashed. 

'No. No, of course not. He's not here.'

'Where is he, Dad?'

'I told you, he's away on work. Now's not the time to talk.'

'What work?'

'Nothing of importance, he'll be home soon.'

'You said that two weeks ago, Dad.'

'Hamish!'

There was another, longer pause, and Hamish knew he'd crossed the line. Dad never liked talking about Father at the moment, especially now Father was away.

'Can't  _you_ go for milk?'

'No, Hamish. Just go, would you?'

Grumbling to himself, Hamish picked up the cash on the table. He looked over to see John had put the newspaper down on the coffee table in front of him, and just before it was closed, he caught sight of the word 'obituaries'. 

'Dad, what's an obituary?'

John turned from his son and shut his eyes. This couldn't happen, not here, not now. It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with Hamish _at all_ , but it couldn't happen a week before Christmas. They'd had such a good time last year, and the years before, with violin playing and presents and Sherlock...

He composed himself, subtly wiped away a tear and turned back to face his son, giving a small smile. 'Nothing. Just reading the news is all. Fancy getting that milk now?'

'No.' Hamish pouted, knowing he had lost.

'Go on. You can keep the change.'

Hamish' eyes lit up. 'Really?'

'Really really, just go get some bloody milk.' John picked up the newspaper again, and, slowly, so Hamish wouldn't see, turned the page from the obituaries and tried to seem interested in some sport story on the back page.

'Ok. Bye Dad.'

'Don't be too long.'

John heard Hamish' heavy footsteps and the door shut.

It's funny, he thought to himself. Those were the last words he said to Sherlock before he left.

***

Ten minutes on, when Hamish returned, John was in his room. Hamish left the milk on the bench. Listening carefully, he could hear John laughing, and he smiled: he always loved when John laughed, and it seemed as though he never did these days.

Hamish stepped quietly up the stairs and over to John's room. He creaked open the door, smiling in anticipation - to see that John wasn't laughing at all. His head was resting on his arms, his eyes closed, tears flooding his face. In front of him was... the newspaper? Hamish strained his eyes and there it was again - obituaries. 

John's sobs continued to rattle his body, the sound of his anguish not able to be silenced, and pain he was feeling reached out it's tendrils and wrapped themselves around Hamish until his own eyes brimmed with tears and he found he couldn't help but walking in, crawling onto the bed with him and wrapping his arms round him.

'I love you, Dad.'

John didn't look up.

'Promise you'll never leave, Hamish.' John whimpered. 'Promise me you'll never leave.'

Hamish didn't know what was going on, he didn't know what was happening. 

'I promise, Dad.' He said anyway.

***

'What do you want for your dinner, Hamish?'

'I don't mind.'

'Ok. I'm going out to do some shopping, I'll be back in an hour or so. Ring me if there's an emergency.'

'Course, Dad.'

It was a week after the 'incident' (as Hamish was calling it) and this was the first time John had left the house since. He seemed to have steadied himself over the past seven days or so. They'd had an adequate Christmas, but something was missing. _Sherlock_ was missing, and without him, without his sarcastic comments and his snide remarks, the house seemed so empty. 

Hamish still had no idea why John had been crying so hard. He had never seen his dad like that before and it scared him.

But if he was going to do anything about it, he was going to find out why.

The unmistakable sound of the door shutting was heard and Hamish wasted no time. He jumped to his feet and sprinted upstairs. Opening the door to John's room, he found it impeccably tidy. Tentatively, so as to not put so much as a hair out of place, Hamish tiptoed in and cautiously stepped to the chest of drawers. He opened each one of them, examined the contents, and closed it. Underwear, socks, vest tops... nothing.

He shuffled over to the wardrobe, slid the door open and inspected. Clothes, obviously. Shoes loitering at the bottom. Nothing caught his- No. Wait. There it was: the tip of a newspaper page, just peeking from under a pair of Timberlakes. Looking round (though knowing he wouldn't be walked in on) Hamish lifted the shoe, slid out the piece of paper and rested the shoe back down. 

He turned and sat on the bed. Smoothing out the page, he read it at the top once again:  _Obituaries._ But what did it mean?

He took his phone out of his back pocket and googled it.

He was holding his breath, but he wasn't sure why.

_A notice of a death, especially in a newspaper, typically including a brief biography of the deceased person._

Hamish didn't read any further, he couldn't. Hastily shoving back the paper and shutting the wardrobe, he exited the room with his heart pounding.

So someone had died.

Who? Who had died that would cause John so much despair? Who had been missing from their lives for the past few days or weeks? Who did John love more than anyone? Who...

He wasn't thick. After all, he was the son of the great Sherlock Holmes. He didn't have to read it to guess who it would be. 

No.

No, he wouldn't believe it. After all, his father had always hated guesswork.

Had. Past tense.

Trying to be reasonable, he involuntarily began arguing with himself. It could be anyone, he thought. Could be Harry, finally having drank herself to death. Maybe it was Sarah Sawyer, the girlfriend Sherlock had bemusedly told the story of many times. Perhaps it was Anthea, though that wasn't her real name. Lestrade maybe, Molly. Anderson. Anyone. Anyone else, because that would make the grieving process easier.

So much easier than what he knew to be the truth.

***

'Hi, Hamish, I'm home.'

No reply.

'Hey, son? I'm back from shopping.'

Still nothing.

'Hamish?'

Silence swarmed the house. This wasn't normal, this wasn't like Hamish. He would usually be bounding down the stairs, inspecting the food as growing boys do, making noise and getting in the way...

There was a creak at the top of the stairs, and Hamish appeared.

'Oh, good, there you are. Give me a hand with these bags.'

Hamish didn't move. 

'Hamish? Did you hear me?'

'Yeah, Dad. I heard.'

'Well, get yourself down here then, you silly boy.' His voice was affectionate.

Hamish did walk down the stairs, slowly. Reaching the bottom, and reaching John, he took two of the bags and carried them through to the kitchen.

John followed, confused. 'Hey, little man. What's gotten into you?' He ruffled his hair.

'Don't, Dad.'

John dropped the bags he was holding and turned to directly face his son.

'Hamish, what's wrong?'

There was a pause. Hamish finally looked up to his dad, and looked him in the eye.

'I found out the definition of obituary today.'

John's eyes widened. His heart seemed to stop, and dread seeped through him like a fast-acting drug. After a beat, he laughed it off uneasily and turned away.

'It's a big word. You must be proud.' He didn't care that he came off as condescending, or sarcastic. He just wanted this conversation to end.

'It means a notice of death. Especially in a newspaper.'

'That's my boy.'

A third, agitated pause. 

'Dad, where's Father?'

'You know where he is. He's on a work trip. He'll be ba...'

'No, Dad. Where is he?'

'Hamish...'

'For God's sake Dad!'

John sharply faced his son again.

'Don't take that tone with me.'

Hamish spoke over him.

'Because you've been saying he's gone away on a work trip, but you've been saying that three weeks, and then you were reading the obituaries and then you were crying and Uncle Mike-'

'Mycroft.'

'And Uncle Mike has called round every day and he _never_ does that and I just want you to tell the truth, Dad. I'm twelve. I can handle it.'

John's eyes had pooled with tears again. His voice was weak.

'That's my issue, Hamish. You're only twelve.'

'Dad, I'm not a toddler!'

'No, son. No, I know. I just...'

'What?'

John looked at the floor, and the tears began to stream down his cheeks, dripping off his nose and splashing onto the floor. He clenched his hands into fists and took a deep breath in. 

'He was on a work trip. Some terrorist thing in Scotland. He knew where they were based and he brought the police there when he thought they'd be away.' John exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was steadier. 'It turned out someone on the police force had tipped off the terrorists. Perhaps it was a bribe, perhaps he was one of them, who knows. But they came, with guns and bombs and within a minute they were dead. All fifteen of the police force. Not a single terrorist casualty.'

Hamish had known what was coming, he had known what to expect... but to hear it confirmed was different.

'Has he been buried?'

'Yes. You know the cemetery where gr-'

'Yeah.'

'There. There wasn't a funeral.'

Hamish was having trouble digesting this. The floor seemed to move beneath him, swaying from one side to another. The walls were closing in. He breathed shallow breaths.

'How long have you known?' He whispered.

'Since a day after he left.'

Hamish raised his head, betrayal smeared across his features.

'Three weeks? You've known three weeks?'

'Not quite thr-'

'And you didn't say anything?'

'Hamish, I didn't want to hurt you!'

'Dad, he's dead! I was going to find out at some point and I was going to be hurt and there's nothing you can do because my Father is dead!'

'Please, Hamish-' John was pleading now, pleading for Hamish to calm down, pleading for himself to calm down, pleading for Sherlock to walk through that goddamned 221B door and tell them he was alive again-

'Bye, Dad.'

Hamish stormed out of the kitchen, ran to his room and grabbed his bag. He shoved a few random things in. It all felt like a film, like he wasn't real and this was just some television show where they were all actors and his Father would be back on set soon to film another scene because he  _couldn't be dead..._

'Hamish...' John's voice broke his thoughts. 'What're you doing?'

'I'm going out.'

'Hamish Watson-Holmes, you-'

' _Bye, Dad.'_ Hamish left his room and brushed past his dad.

Just as he reached the door, John brokenly said, 'You promised you'd never leave.'

Hamish just looked at him. His face was hard, but his eyes read apology as he slammed the door shut.

John collapsed, and all he knew was tears and a heart that was shattering in two.

***

 Four hours.

Hamish wasn't back.

John hadn't moved.

***

'That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.'

'And you invaded Afghanistan.'

They had laughed.

***

Invading Afghanistan was nothing compared to this.

***

What does laughing feel like?

***

Seven hour had passed. John still hadn't moved.

Hamish still wasn't back.

The clock chimed midnight, and John upon hearing it raised his head.

Midnight, and his little boy was out somewhere.

His neck cramped. He raised his arm - stiffly - and rubbed the back of it. Seven hours of crying, grieving, mourning - and it only struck him now that his preteen son was out, in the middle of night, God knows where.

He hated himself. He hated himself beyond belief.

It took him a few minutes, but he was able finally to stand and shake out his numbing limbs, and as soon as he could walk without falling, he stumbled straight to the phone and dialed 999.

'Which service do you require?'

'The... The police. Police, please, now.'

'Yes, sir. We'll put you through.'

'This is the police. What is your emergency?'

'My twelve year old son has been missing for seven hours.'

'Where do you live, sir?'

'221B Baker Street, St Marylebone, London.'

'We'll send round a police car. It'll be about half an hour.'

'Thank you.'

He ended the call and curled back up on the hallway floor.

 ***

Hamish shivered. The air bit at him in the dark, and even huddling for warmth, he found himself to be too cold to think straight.

He couldn't stop replaying the scene in his head. Hamish' anger blinding him, John's crumpling face just before he left... it was devastating. Every time he thought of it, it felt as though he was being clawed from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do to stop the pain. Tears fell like raindrops, and he wondered if he could drown in them.

The temperature seemed to drop further. He attempted to curl up tighter than before and hit his head of the granite gravestone he was lying in front of. The physical pain helped him see through the emotional wreckage that he was - a scrapyard for old, happy feelings, skyscrapers of hurt and despair.

Father would disapprove of his poetry, he thought.

He looked up and read the script for the thousandth time - 'In memory of Sherlock Holmes, great detective and father.' Not enough.  _Not enough._ It didn't explain how his eyes lit up when a case was interesting, nor how fluid his movements were when he played the violin, nor how when John kissed him he tried to conceal his affection. It didn't explain anything.

The shivering became uncontrollable. His tears seemed to freeze.

***

John could hear them through the kitchen.

'Yes. Yes, he's been found.'

Oh my God. Oh, dear  _fucking_ Lord, thank you.

'Yes, we'll have him tested. Not sure if he'll go back.'

...What?

'Could be dangerous for him. We'll assess the situation.'

Dangerous?

The door flew open, and the police officer was startled to see John only centimeters away from him.

'Dangerous?' John echoed his thoughts in disjointed speech.

'Sir, we want you to do a breathalyzer test.'

'Excuse me?'

'A breathalyzer test.'

There was a small moment of silence.

'A breathalyzer test.'

'Yes.'

John looked him dead in the eye for a moment, before raising his fist and punching the officer with such force that he stumbled and came clattering to the floor, whacking his head off the kitchen door. The other two officers in the room rushed over, grabbed John by his shoulders and attempted to take hold of his wrists which were flailing at thin air.

'Who the  _fuck_ do you think you are?! The boy's father has just died and you stand there and ask  _me_ to do a breathalyzer test when I am mourning my husband and my son could be  _dead_...'

The officer on the floor clambered to his feet and spoke into his walkie: 'Definitely a danger. Call for a police van, we're taking him down.'

John continued yelling and screaming, hitting out at nothing, rage swelling inside of him and stabbing out in curses and punches and tears before his hands were pulled behind his back and handcuffed.

'No. No, please. Please, he needs me. I'm begging you, just don't, just...'

'You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

John roared through his tears.

'You... you can't do this, you can't.' He tried to force his voice to steady, to sound resolute. It didn't.

'It'll be easier if you co-operate.'

'Please.'

'There's nothing we can do. I'm sorry.'

They led him out into the hall, out the door, out into the car.

'Where's my son?'

'He'll be taken elsewhere.'

'Is he safe?'

'Yes.'

'Ok.' John sat in the back seat of the van, and suddenly he was so exhausted. His eyes closed of their own accord.

'Ok.' He whispered once more, before drifting into sleep.

 ***

'Where's Dad?'

'He'll...'

'Where is he?'

'Hami...'

'Tell me.'

The social worker put her hand on Hamish' shoulder. Hamish jumped up and hit her hand away. 

'Just tell me.'

'Your dad is at the police station. I wanted to ask...'

'Why is he at the police station?'

'We're just checking things out.'

'Things?'

'Your home life. So ha-'

'My home life is fine.'

'Has your dad ever hurt you?'

'What?'

'Hit you, shoved you...'

Hamish just glared.

'Has he ever called you names?'

His eyes unsettled her.

'What about threatened you?'

A long, uncomfortable pause.

'...right.'

'Can I see him?'

'Not right away.'

'Let me see him.'

'Hamish, we need to...'

'He has never hit me, or hurt me, or called me names. He doesn't drink often, or do any stupid drugs.' Hamish' eyes filled with tears. 'He's mourning his husband and I need to see him now so I can be with him and we can stick together, don't you  _understand?'_

Her eyes looked over her wire-frames and she inspected him closely.

'You're very mature for someone your age.'

'I get it from my father.'

***

'Hamish. Oh, my God. Hamish. You're ok, you're alive, oh thank God.'

John pulled Hamish so tightly to him that his son had to pull away for air.

'Hi, dad. Can we go home?'

'Soon, son. Where we you?'

Hamish looked to the floor and scuffed his shoes on the carpet of the police station.

'I was visiting father.'

John felt as though a dagger had pierced between his ribs.

'You...'

'I visited his grave, I mean.'

A moment of silence passed. John knelt down to look Hamish in the eye.

'Don't you ever, ever do that to me again.'

'Sorry, dad.'

John pulled Hamish to him for a second time, and this time Hamish clung on with an equal level of force.

'I love you, Hamish. Never forget that.'

***

A week had passed. John held the piece of paper in his hands, debating whether now was the right time. He knew it needed to happen now. He knew that. 

'Give it to him when the time necessitates it, John.' Sherlock had said.

'Sherlock...'

'You know what I think of emotion, John. You know I can't express it properly. So give it to him when you think he needs it.'

John had pulled Sherlock into a deep and loving kiss at that point, breathing him in, caressing his existence. God, he missed him. He missed his smell. His tousled hair. The stone cold but sexy indifference. His scent of musk and brand new suits and apple shampoo.

'Hamish!' John called. He listened to Hamish' quick footsteps down the stairs and braced himself.

Hamish appeared in the doorway in his blue flannel pajamas. His hair was dark and messy, just as _his_ had been. His eyes were sleepy but alert. John smiled affectionately at the sight of him.

'I have something for you.' He took a step forward and reached out to give Hamish the letter.

'It's from your father. He told me to give it to you when the time was right, because he found it difficult to express emotion in person.'

Hamish looked down to the flimsy piece of paper. He found it incredible that just this, some ink and twenty six letters could form something so profound. He looked back up at his dad, give a curt nod and slowly ambled upstairs, his paces slowed by the preoccupation of what was in his hands.

When he got to his room, he shut the door firmly closed, and sat on the floor in front of it. Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the paper and began to read.

_'Dear Hamish,_

_I do not know where you are right now, or what you are doing, and it does not matter in the slightest because no matter what you have done or said, everything I say in this letter remains true._

_I used to believe that to be successful as a consulting detective and genius, I should have to detach myself from all platonic and romantic relationships. I believed that sentiment was a defect, that it would only be used to hurt me and therefore maim my ability to deduce and solve._

_Then I met your dad, John Watson. And for someone so ordinary he blew me away. He did not see me as a freak, like the rest of them. He saw me as a person._

_Don't make the same mistake I did. Even now, I find it arduous to write this. It is a difficult task - more difficult than any other - for me to admit my affection for someone. And what I hold for you is more than that - it is love._

_We used a surrogate to birth you, and I believe biologically you are mine. I wish you were not. John is more than me. John feels and is not ashamed to admit it. John can hold his hands up and accept when he is wrong, and he speaks the truth, even if it backfires in the end. He is wise, wiser than I could ever be. He understands people. Not in the same way I do - I understand them as objects: he understands them as human beings._

_Don't take after me, Hamish. I am nothing like your dad. I am nothing_ compared _to him. Please know that loving is not a disadvantage, and admitting it does not make you weak. Of course it can be used to hurt you, and sometimes it will. But I know now that there are two sides to the coin. It can be used to hurt you but it can also be fulfilling. Without your father, I would still be labelled a freak_ _. I would see no use in saving lives, and I would remain unaware of the many different ways in which someone can be intelligent._

_Your dad can appreciate beauty. He can understand feelings. He can admit he is wrong. He can do everything I cannot._

_I love you Hamish. I love you and your dad beyond anything I have ever felt. it is confusing, it conflicts against my morals and fights everything I have ever believed, but I love you._

_Your proud father,_

_Sherlock Holmes.'_

Hamish didn't notice the tears that were sprouting until he looked up to find he could not see through them. His throat felt as though it were closing, and his heart hurt.

Somehow, though, he was happy. He was content. He was at rest.

'I love you too.'


End file.
